


Wish Upon a Santa

by holeofholland



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Tom Holland, Butt Slapping, Choking, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Come Swallowing, Deepthroating, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Gay Tom Holland, Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild S&M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sensuality, Sibling Incest, Taboo, Threesome - M/M/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeofholland/pseuds/holeofholland
Summary: When, on Christmas Eve, Tom, Harry, and Harrison make a wish on what they mistake for a shooting star, their dirtiest fantasies come true.
Relationships: Harrison Osterfield/Original Male Character(s), Harry Holland/Original Male Character(s), Tom Holland/Harrison Osterfield/Harry Holland, Tom Holland/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 62





	1. Wish Upon a Star

“Would you look at that?” Harry said from where he sat perched on the ledge of the living room window. He stared through the glass longingly, up at the hung moon in the sky. Behind him, Tom and Harrison were nestled on the sofa as only best friends could be, Harrison’s head on Tom’s lap, a sheep’s wool blanket tucked over them. Neither looked up when Harry spoke, at least not until he faced them, a knot between his brows.

Tom was the first to notice his brother’s scowl. “What?” he queried languidly. Sleep was already threatening the boy. His eyes felt heavy and his limbs felt lighter than usual.

“I told you to look,” Harry accused, turning back to look out the window.

“Just tell us what it is,” Harrison said, curling further into his best friend. Instinctively, Tom wound a hand through Harrison’s hair. The act warmed Harrison who felt a tiny bit of resentment towards Harry for speaking just as the boy was drifting to sleep.

Harry sighed while keeping his eyes fixed on the sky. “I can’t. You have to see it for yourself. Now, hurry before it’s gone.”

Though reluctant and, admittedly, a little grumpy, Tom and Harrison rose and crossed the living room to join Harry at the window. When they saw what the boy saw, neither held any further misgivings.

“A shooting star,” Tom gasped.

“On Christmas Eve?” Harrison asked doubtfully. But no. His voice contained no doubt. It was bewilderment. “It’s got to mean something, right?”

Tom opened his mouth to say that he didn’t know but stopped when Harry cut in. “Does it really matter? It’s a shooting star.” When the boys looked at him dumbly, Harry rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was having to explain this. “Just make a wish, you twats.”

So they did. Tom, Harrison, and Harry all cast a wish upon the shooting star. Afterward, as they parted for their bedrooms, the boys hadn’t the slightest idea that they had all made the same wish on something that wasn’t a shooting star, nor did they realize their collective wish was about to come true.


	2. Tom's Wish

Tom had only been asleep an hour when he heard an unfamiliar footfall in the hallway, just outside his bedroom. At first, he ignored it, figuring either Harry or Harrison had awoken for a glass of water or to pee. When he heard that board squeak though—that board third from the right of the bathroom that had squeaked since purchasing the Kingston flat; the one Harry and Harrison had learned to avoid, lest wake everyone else—Tom knew there was a stranger outside his door.

His first instinct was to hide, so he did. Quickly and as quietly as a mouse, Tom slipped out of bed and into the closet where, after pulling the door flush, he huddled into the corner, next to a mound of unfolded clothes.

He waited, anticipatory, for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. When he no longer heard footsteps and his heartrate finally slackened, Tom peeked out of the closet. It was then that he came face to face with the toe of a coal-black boot adorned with a gold buckle.

Tom eyed the boot for only a moment, noticing how unused it appeared. A boot as such was usually found dusted in dirt, or snow, considering the Kingston winters. These were clean though, even pristine. One look at them and a glance at their wearer, and Tom screamed. 

“W-Who are you?” he sputtered frantically while darting back into the closet. It did no good though.

The intruder, whoever he was, promptly swung the closet door wide, exposing Tom who had taken up a wooden clothing hanger and wielded it like a broadsword.

“Don’t come any closer,” Tom warned, threatening the intruder with a corner of the hanger. This, to the boy’s dismay, appeared to have no effect on the boot-wearing stranger. In fact, the man—that’s what the intruder was, Tom realized, noticing a brown-grey speckle against a surprisingly cut jaw—seemed unphased by any bit of Tom’s reaction.

The man peered into the closet. His lips, hidden shallowly in his beard, were set in a firm line. Two indents ran from the corners of his lips to his bulbous, almost button-like nose. It, Tom noticed, was rather pink, as if the man had just ventured from a long stint outdoors. Seeing as the man _had_ broken into the flat, that probability seemed rather just to the boy.

Finally, after what seemed like decades of a fruitless stare-down, Tom broke the silence, spitting out the words he was able to. “W-Who are y-you?”

The man didn’t answer right away; only harrumphed and turned to the bed where he promptly collapsed with a deep sigh. From his less-than-secure spot in the closet, Tom further examined the man.

He was dressed rather erroneously for the season, in a white tank top and black suspenders that held a pair of red velvet trousers against his waist. All of it seemed tight-fitting, hugging the man’s muscular frame desperately. Tom couldn’t help but notice arms bigger than his own, threatening to rip the tank top in two pieces. When the man removed a red toboggan, his hair was the same color as his beard, though, admittedly, far curlier.

“You know who I am,” the man suddenly spoke. He didn’t look at Tom though the boy was certain he had been caught staring.

He inched closer to the doorway of the cramped closet, hanger still in hand. “I really don’t.”

“No?” The man looked at Tom now, a thin smile turning the corners of his lips. His eyes glinted like sapphires.

“A thief?” Tom guessed. This made the man laugh. The sound was more of a chortle though, deep and bellyful. When, at last, he stopped laughing, he stood and pointed at the window.

“See the moon?” he queried.

It took a moment for it to click in Tom’s brain. When it had, his eyes widened and he dropped the wooden hanger with a clang. “You’re a shooting star?” As soon as the words left his lips, he felt ignorant. Of course, the man sitting before him wasn’t a star. He was a _person._ And perhaps Tom had had too much eggnog before bed to be making different assumptions.

Thankfully, the man didn’t laugh at Tom. On the contrary, he just smiled, rather gently. “I suppose, in a way, I might be. You’d be the first to compare me to that though.”

“Compare you..?” Tom grasped for something solid, something that didn’t make him feel like he was hallucinating or about to be robbed. “ _Who_ are you?”

“Thomas Stanley Holland.”

Tom froze at his full name. “How did you—?”

“You wished for a firetruck on your fourth Christmas,” the man continued, ignoring Tom. He was right too; Tom _had_ made that wish. “When you were six, you wanted to be Spider-Man—looks like that wish came true.” Tom couldn’t help but smile at that. “When you were sixteen, you wished for your best friend to be comfortable with himself. That was a rather sacrificial wish. I was proud of you for that one.”

“Okay, stop,” Tom interjected, finally rising to his feet. He stared intently at the man on his bed. “How do you know all this?”

The man took a breath. It rose in his stomach and fell through his chest, inflating then deflating his frame. “I’m Santa Claus.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? Santa Claus?”

“Yes.”

“ _The_ Santa Claus? The jolly, fat red-suited man who delivers presents to the world in one night?”

The man glanced down at his stomach with a frown. “I thought I’d done a pretty good job with myself this year.”

Tom ignored this and, instead, paced the length of his bedroom, racking for some sense of sanity. “I’m probably dreaming, that’s it.”

“You’re not dreaming, Tom,” the man claiming to be Santa defended.

“Oh?” Tom spun accusingly at the man. “And how would you know that?”

“Because I know what you wished for just a couple hours ago, at your living room window, on that shooting star.”

“What..?”

“You wished to make love, Tom.” Santa stood and dropped his suspenders to his sides. “And I’m here to make sure you get just that.”

As a towering, six-foot-tall Santa lumbered forward, Tom found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He pulled at the fabric hugging his chest—it seemed fatally constrictive now—and swallowed a lump in his throat. He grasped for something to say, anything. A denial or a rejection seemed appropriate when a strange man entered your home and offered himself up as a sexually-driven fairytale character. But nothing of that sort managed to come to Tom’s mind. All he seemed able to do was clutch at his shirt and fearfully gape as Santa peeled off his tank top, revealing a well-carved body decorated with brown fuzz.

“B-Buff,” Tom stuttered, sounding more like a malfunctioning boombox than someone frightened.

Santa smiled at this and tossed the tank top aside. “I told you I worked on myself this year.”

“But I…I mean, what…” Tom blinked rapidly and his eyes stung; he hadn’t realized just how cemented his sight had been on Santa’s lean frame.

“Don’t think too much into it,” Santa said while taking a couple more steps forward. Only inches separated him from Tom now. When he looked down at the boy, his breath filtered through a messy head of hair.

Tom contrastingly shivered at the sudden warmth radiating in front of him. Slowly, he glanced up and into the man’s eyes. In them, he looked for a sign of betrayal, something that would make him realize this entire idea was ludicrous. “You’re not lying to me? About being Santa?”

Santa shook his head, apparently amused at Tom’s hesitancy. “I knew your wishes, didn’t I?”

Tom nodded, loosening a little. He allowed his hand to fall from his chest. “Even tonight’s…”

“So?” Santa looked at him expectantly.

“Okay.” Tom nodded, assured of the decision he was making. After all, it had been his Christmas wish.

“Yeah?” Santa didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he dipped his head and pressed his lips against Tom’s. Instinctively, the boy fell into the kiss, parting his lips and taking in the taste of Father Christmas. Peppermint and chocolate. Hints of delicate sugar, probably from cookies. It all exploded against Tom’s tastebuds. If, he thought, this was all he would taste for the rest of his life, he was perfectly okay with that. The kiss, for all its buildup, was the best Tom had ever had.

When he eventually pulled back, red-faced and panting, he smiled into Santa’s blue eyes. “I don’t ever want you to stop doing that.”

Santa said nothing to this, though he did smile, rather widely—dimples pierced his cheeks—and hefted Tom into the air. Tom, who let out little more than a squeal, seemed to know exactly what to do. He wrapped his legs snugly around Santa’s hips and his arms around the man’s neck. As he pressed their chests together, he realized he was still clothed. He said as much to a chuckling Santa.

“What?” Tom queried.

“It’s nothing,” Santa assured him. “I just sometimes forget I can do this.” With a wiggle of the man’s button nose, Tom felt his clothes disappear. That was truly the best word he could think of. One second, he felt the tightness of pajama bottoms and a shirt. The next, he was weightless. Naked.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, gazing into Santa’s blue eyes. “You really are Santa Claus.”

“I told you.”

Tom playfully smacked a hand against a furry pec. “You could have opened with that.”

“I could’ve,” Santa agreed. “Though that might have just frightened you more.”

“I guess you’re right. Now that that’s out of the way…”

Santa urged the boy onward. “Yes?”

“I think I’d like to continue whatever”—he motioned with a finger, wiggling it back and forth between them—“this is.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” Santa said, before collapsing back on the bed.

Before the bed could stop quaking from their dropped force, Tom and Santa were kissing again, this time with less hesitance. Had anyone been looking on at the sight in the Kingston flat bedroom, they might have thought the two gentlemen before them were long lovers, familiar with one another to be touching with such ease.

Tom, all fear evaporated, wound his fingers through Santa’s chocolate-colored curls, tugging lightly at the crown. Santa, who had apparently done this before, moved his fingertips delicately up and down Tom’s spine. Goosebumps erupted over the smooth flesh there, trailing down to the boy’s bottom. Santa ran his hands there too. The touch pulled a moan through Tom’s lips. It did not, however, break their kiss.

For minutes on end, the two explored one another, tasting what Tom never thought he’d have and what Santa had always wanted to give. When they finally broke their embrace, much to either’s dismay, Tom found his lips numb. It was a feeling he thought he could easily get used to.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mused, raising, and staring down at Santa. He could feel the man’s front pulsing against his cheeks. When he ran his hands through the fur of his chest, Tom found the man’s heart just as sporadic. He wanted this just as much as Tom did, that was more than evident.

“Believe it,” Santa said, bringing a hand up the boy’s own lean body. He cupped a pec and squeezed, causing Tom to bite his lip, lest scream out.

When he calmed, Tom asked, “So, what do we do now? I mean, I haven’t done this much. Maybe twice before.”

“Really?” Santa appeared genuinely surprised. “With a kiss like that, I would have thought you were a pro.”

Tom shrugged, suddenly shy. “Instinct, maybe?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll guide you. Do you feel this?” While speaking, Santa had taken up his length and smacked it softly between Tom’s cheeks.

Tom nodded while moaning. “Yeah.”

“Do you want it in you?”

“More than anything.”

“Yeah?” Using a free hand, Santa pulled Tom back against him and suckled the crook of his neck. The sensation was overpowering for Tom who gasped and dug his fingernails into the man’s shoulders.

“Please,” Tom begged through a breath. “I need it.”

“Then you’ll have it.”

The feeling was unlike anything Tom had experienced before. Swelling and pressure and being peeled apart, layer by layer. With such a girth, the boy had braced himself for the pain, for the ripping. It never came though. The way Santa pulled Tom apart was the way Tom himself might open a present, so contrastingly deliberate from that of someone who ravaged to the center. For Tom, opening a present was about savoring the finale, keeping that desire and suspense built for as long as possible. In that way, so Santa opened Tom.

When, at long last, only skin separated them, Tom and Santa began building a rhythm. Their bodies moved as one. Beneath them, the bed rocked too, squeaking under their wave-length thrusts.

“Oh, my God,” Tom whispered as they went, his hands winding through Santa’s hair, his mouth pressed lazily over the man’s chest.

In the boy’s ear, Santa purred with just as much yearning. “Yeah, you like that?”

“So much,” Tom breathed.

“I know you do, baby. Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

They began kissing then, their mouths never parting until Tom grew tired of sitting atop Santa. At the boy’s suggestion, Santa guided Tom onto his back and swung into a new rhythm. They resumed kissing then. For how long, neither really knew. They didn’t care either. Tom and Santa were lost in their throes of lovemaking, of finding that core piece of one another and cradling it like a delicate tree ornament. For Tom, it was digging his nails into Santa’s back and suckling on one of the man’s nipples. For Santa, it was rocking against that perfect spot within Tom until the boy whined for more.

Some time into their movement, the whining grew steadier and far louder than usual. Through gasps, Tom cried out, “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Santa heard these words and couldn’t help but multiply his thrusts, rocking against Tom so forcefully that the headboard of the bed knocked on the wall. Again, the intrusion was ignored.

“Come on, baby,” Santa urged, breathing softly against Tom’s cheek. “Come for me. Let me see it.”

It was all the words Tom needed to hear for his cock to twitch and, completely hands-free, spurt ropes upon ropes of sweet juice against his smooth, rippled stomach. For a moment, it seemed the release would never end. It pooled ceaselessly in the crevices of Tom’s muscles and bellybutton. When, at last, it spilled over and onto the sheets, the spew died down.

By then, Santa had already contorted his face into that of a man on the edge of combusting. Seconds later, he did, shooting into Tom who felt his entire form melt away with the leaking sweetness inside. All the while, Santa hollered, thoughtless of the remaining flatmates, “I’m coming. Oh, fuck, I’m coming.”

Afterward, Santa collapsed on the bed and Tom huddled next to him. Still warm from their passion, neither needed a blanket. With a kiss on Santa’s stomach, Tom found himself giving into the throes of sleep. By the time he had drifted, he didn’t even notice he was alone.


	3. Harry's Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning of this chapter, a reference is made to the art piece, "Fallen Angel" by Alexandre Cabanel. You can find that painting here: https://bit.ly/3qb7JfQ .

For a boy who had proclaimed to be a light sleeper his entire life, Harry found it increasingly difficult to wake that Christmas Eve. The footsteps in the hallway didn’t do the trick, despite how heavy and jingly they were. Nor did the creak of his bedroom door when it was opened and allowed a stranger entrance. Even when that stranger, Father Christmas himself, took a seat on the boy’s bed, Harry continued to snooze, undisturbed and apparently dreaming happily if his smile was any indication.

For a moment, Santa mused over the boy. He seemed so helpless, so young. His skin was smooth, void of the stress lines and dark spots that came with age. The curls atop his head were springy and vivacious. Images of Alexandre Cabanel’s _Fallen Angel_ came to Santa’s mind as he looked upon the boy. And, somehow, that made perfect sense. As Lucifer was said to be the most innocent looking yet most inwardly devious, so it seemed was Harry Holland.

“Curious,” Santa said aloud, confident his voice would not stir the sleeping one. “Of the three of you, your wish baffled me the most.” Carefully, he brought a hand down on a smooth cheek and stroked his thumb idly. “Perhaps your brother could have made the wish. Is it possible I mixed things up?

“No, I suppose not. I’ve never mixed wishes before. Why would I start now?” Santa retreated from the bed then, standing at the foot. He proceeded to undress, dropping his clothes in a pile on the wood-planked floor. Once naked, Father Christmas tossed back Harry Holland’s blanket, exposing a nude bottom labeled haphazardly with washable marker.

 **_CUM DUMP_ ** **.**

Santa couldn’t help himself. A smile turned the corners of his lips and he chuckled softly. “I definitely didn’t mix wishes, did I?” He reached a hand then, gruff with the long winter, and wrapped it around Harry’s ankle. With a single strength-defying tug, the boy was pulled from his bed and to the floor on his knees where he finally woke.

“What the—?” Harry began but stopped short when he noticed he wasn’t alone. Slowly, he turned, still on his knees, and looked up, into the eyes of the towering Christmas giant. He opened his mouth to scream and promptly found it filled with Santa’s third leg.

Harry’s eyes bulged as the veiny length speared into his mouth, dipping into his throat, tickling his uvula so that a cough threatened to erupt. His cheeks felt hot and his chapped lips burned as they spread, the skin peeling apart. Tears pooled on the rim of his eyes, close to spilling over. He made to wipe at them and found himself held taught by an unseen force.

Above him, Harry’s sudden captor grinned devilishly. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this a pretty sight?” His voice was intriguing—that was the best way to describe it. When Harry heard it, he found himself wanting to give himself over, to allow this stranger to devour him bite by bite.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Santa Claus continued. “To be used? Abused? Taught a fucking lesson?” As if for emphasis, Santa drilled deeper into Harry’s skull. As he dipped into the throat, the shape of his length protruded through the boy’s neck. He could place a hand there and feel two pulses.

Harry mumbled something then, though his voice sounded garbled. It was only when Santa relented and retreated from the boy’s mouth that the words were clear. “I want more.”

Santa laughed a bellyful laugh and stroke Harry’s cheek with his slimy tip. “You’ll get plenty more, don’t you worry about that. I have to say though. I never suspected you’d be the dirtiest of your brothers. You seemed so innocent. Always on the Good list.”

“A perfect ruse.” Harry shrugged.

“Hmph.” Santa eyed the boy, looked at his slender frame as if inspecting a prey. Whether Harry was a deer, rabbit, or some other woodland creature, it wasn’t clear. It didn’t matter either. To Santa, the hunt was on.

“Up,” he commanded suddenly, stepping back so Harry could rise to his feet. Once he had, Father Christmas forced the boy onto the bed and situated him so that his head dangled just off the edge of the mattress.

From where he lay, everything appeared upside-down to Harry—the dresser, the door, even Santa and his member that seemed far too long to be real. As it neared Harry’s face, he found trepidation taking over. Sure, he’d accepted the behemoth just moments before but now felt different. He’d never been upside-down for something like this. What if he did something wrong? What if Santa did?

Fortunately, Harry didn’t have long to worry about such things. Only seconds after being sorted on the bed, Santa lumbered forward and parted the boy’s mouth. As he slipped his rod in, the unfamiliar scent of musk wafted into Harry’s nose. It was immediately intoxicating, seeping into his veins, and pooling into his brain where everything became suddenly fuzzy. It was as if the boy’s entire body was running on a blown circuit. All he could smell was man. All he could taste was man. And when his vision began to focus, all he could see was man.

Again, Harry mumbled something incomprehensible. This time though, Santa didn’t remove himself for clarity. Instead, he pulled out just far enough so that his tip rested idly on the roof of Harry’s mouth. Just as the boy began to reiterate, Santa drove back in.

“You don’t get to speak,” he growled, repeating the same movement. “You speak when I tell you to.” Another thrust. “Until I say so, you’re my bitch. Got it?” Santa thrust into the boy’s mouth three more times before Harry nodded. “That’s a good slut. Now, open that throat for Daddy.”

For the next little while, Harry melted under Santa’s force. Little by little, he found himself dissolving into a puddle of moans and gags as that nine-inch rod was rammed over and over into his throat, each new thrust fiercer than the last. It didn’t take long for Harry’s body to react to the new appendage.

Soon, his face was a sticky mess of saliva and slime that pooled from the corners of his mouth. It dripped over his cheeks and spilled haphazardly into his eyes, forcing them shut. The bit that made its way into his nostrils clogged his cavities and made breathing more than a struggle. By the time Santa had slowed his thrusts else chance climaxing too early, Harry was gasping for air. When, at last, Santa released him, the boy rolled over and coughed onto the floor.

“That can’t possibly be the first time you’ve done that,” Santa mused while watching the fit.

Spittle still dribbling from his bottom lip, Harry rose and looked into his newfound daddy’s eyes. “It was.”

“I fail to believe that.” Santa stepped forward and wrapped a hand around Harry’s neck. He lifted him effortlessly, up on his knees. “You suck dick like a whore, like you’ve been doing it all your life.”

“I…swear…” Harry choked out while clawing at the man’s chapped hand.

Santa simply shrugged. “Perhaps you were just born to serve. In that case…” He dropped his grasp on Harry. “Get on all fours.”

There was no need for pleasantries at this point. In the midst of his throat being shredded, Harry had concluded exactly why Santa Claus was in his bedroom. His wish. It had been simple enough— _I want a daddy to make me his bitch._ Now, it seemed, Santa was here to make that wish come true. And so far, he had.

“Now, spread those cheeks,” the wish-granter continued. “Let me see what I’m about to rip open.”

Harry obeyed, peeling apart his ass to reveal a freshly-shaved hole. Upon seeing it, Santa laughed. “You really were prepared for me, weren’t you? How did you know I’d even come tonight?”

“I didn’t,” Harry admitted. He strained to glance over his shoulder. “I still know who I am though.”

“A come dump.” Santa mulled over the words scribbled on the boy’s cheeks, mindlessly running his hand through his salt-and-pepper beard. “I don’t think any two words could better describe you.”

“No, Daddy,” Harry agreed.

For a couple more moments, the two remained in silence, Harry patiently awaiting Santa’s next move and Santa trying to figure out what that move was. The man thought it was an easy enough decision. Here he had a willing whore of a boy giving himself up to absolute obliteration. It would seem obvious enough that someone climb atop the boy and give him just that. But Santa didn’t believe in the obvious.

“What have you had inside you, boy?” Santa suddenly prompted.

Harry didn’t seem shaken by the question. “My fingers, a couple of toys, and Harrison.”

“Nothing else?”

Harry shook his head.

“Hmm.” Santa drew closer to the still-exposed hole and dipped his head into it. He blew a sharp, cool breath on the pucker of skin and chuckled as Harry gasped. “Tell me, Harry Holland, have you ever had a tongue in you?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm, really?”

Santa stood then and paced around the bed, stopping just in front of Harry’s reddened face. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before, wordlessly, the boy was tossed onto his back. Santa climbed atop him then and straddled his thighs over a slender neck. His length, impressive and unlike anything man had ever possessed, lay rigid on Harry’s face.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Santa began while idly slapping his meat. “You’re going to hold your breath.”

The idea, in itself, seemed simple enough to Harry who had spent countless summers training his breathing techniques with his brothers in the family pool. Then, it had been a case of how long could he stay beneath the water. Now, it was how long could he withstand Santa’s hand clasped over his nose and mouth.

After a minute and a half—he had counted—the desire for oxygen became carnal. Harry clawed at Santa’s hand and bucked his hips, trying to wiggle out from beneath the man. All of his efforts were fruitless though, and with each new tug of his body, he seemed to be held tighter. With each passing second, Harry felt reality drip away from him. His lungs burned. His chest ached. When he looked up at Santa, he realized a halo of black was surrounding the man. Harry’s vision was blurring. He felt the cold swell of exhaustion overtaking him. Just when he thought he was not long for this world, Santa relented.

“Breathe,” he instructed, removing his hand from the boy’s face.

When he did, Harry found his head forced into Santa’s balls. When he breathed, it was the intoxicating scent of manhood and sweat. The musk was unlike before though, far deeper than a pleasant scent. Somehow, what Harry breathed in felt…magical. At least, that was the first word that came to mind. Other words might have been freeing, weight-lifting, or mind-numbing. When he breathed, the air seemed to do more than fill his lungs. It coursed through his veins, relaxed his muscles. For a moment, Harry wondered if this was what being high felt like.

After a moment, and once Harry was no longer panting, Santa dropped down from the bed. He said nothing to the boy as he turned him back onto his knees. Without being told to, Harry spread his cheeks apart. When he did, Santa inched forward and teased his thumb against the boy’s hole. It had loosened quite impressively in just the few minutes it had been abandoned. Only Santa knew it was no coincidence.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” the bearded man announced to an unexpected Harry. The boy opened his mouth to retort when Santa silenced him by inserting that teasing finger.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed.

“That’s a good boy,” Santa mused. “Think you can do another?”

There wasn’t an answer but there didn’t need to be. The whimper that emanated from the boy’s mouth when Santa inserted a second finger was answer enough.

“It feels so good,” Harry moaned once Santa began moving the fingers about. “But it’s not enough…”

“No?” Santa pierced a third finger to which Harry begged for more. A fourth finger entered then and, still, that was not enough for the boy.

“I feel like I could take a thousand fingers,” he admitted, glancing over his shoulders.

“Oh, is that so?” Santa asked. “Well, I’ll give you something like it.”

Santa slipped his thumb into the boy then. Harry cried out deafeningly as Santa’s entire hand followed suit, disappearing so that it appeared the old man wore the boy like a glove.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry boomed, dropping his hold on his cheeks, and falling face-first into the mattress. “What the hell did you do?”

“Do you like it?” Santa wondered, though he didn’t really care about the answer.

“No,” Harry said and the man stopped. What the boy said next ignited a second fiery passion within Father Christmas.

“ _I fucking love it._ ”

The words were all Santa needed to drive forward. As he maneuvered his hand around Harry’s insides, he also mounted the boy’s bottom and brought a gleaming slab of meat against the gaping hole. With a cry of pleasure from both of them accompanied it, Santa slid into the boy.

The feeling was overwhelming for either of them, Santa because it’d been far too long and Harry because he’d never felt anything similar, and probably never would again.

“It’s so…so fucking much,” the boy gasped.

Santa began thrusting then, his fist and length falling into the same rhythm. “And you’re taking every bit of it. Can you believe it?”

“No, I re _ally_ …fuck, that’s the spot.” Harry dug his nails into the sheets. “I can’t believe it, Daddy.”

“That’s a good boy, a good fucking boy.”

For the next few minutes, Santa continued driving into Harry. With each movement, he was sure to press against that perfect spot. And each time he did just that, Harry would moan ruthlessly. Soon, the Kingston flat bedroom became an echoing chamber of moans, screams, and chest-deep growls. Together, the sounds dissolved into music that either of the pair could dance to. But dance they did not do for much longer, not when the pressure building in Harry became too much.

“I’m gonna come,” he announced suddenly. It wasn’t five seconds after that he felt Santa’s free hand in his hair, pulling sharply. The tug was like the switch being flipped. At the same time it happened, the boy’s load erupted from his meat, soaking into the bedsheets.

“That’s a good boy,” Santa praised, somehow knowing when the last trickle of climax died down. “Now, it’s my turn.”

What happened next was too quick for Harry to comprehend. One second he was simultaneously being fisted and penetrated. The next, he was flat on the bed with his cheeks spread wide. From where he lay, the boy couldn’t see Santa but he knew what was happening. Santa was making sure Harry lived up to the words on his bottom.

“You ready for this load, you whore?” Santa beckoned as he pumped furiously.

Harry nodded against the mattress. “So ready, Daddy.”

“That’s right, you’re so re _ady…_ FUCK.”

It happened suddenly and uncontrollably, like a firehose dropped in the street. In the way that the hose would jump around and spray water over any and everything, so did Santa’s length as his release came forth. It splattered Harry’s cheeks. His lower back. His upper back. Some even made it into the curls atop his head. When all was said and done, the boy looked like he’d just fallen into a vat of melted whipped cream.

Santa collapsed next to Harry then and panted. “You…really are…something, Harry Holland.”

“Mm, I know.” Harry scooted closer to the man and draped a hand lazily over his fuzzy chest. “Thanks for that.”

“Merry Christmas, boy.”

The two lay in silence for a while, until Harry drifted to sleep. By that point, Santa had redressed and slipped through the bedroom door. When he did, Harry rolled over, never waking. It wouldn’t be until much later that he saw the added word on his bottom that corrected his scribbles to **_SANTA’S CUM DUMP._**


	4. Harrison's Wish

After saying goodnight to Harry and Tom, Harrison retreated to his bedroom where he promptly tucked himself beneath his blankets with an old pair of underwear and a phone directed to his favorite adult website. When Santa appeared at the foot of the boy’s bed that night, Harrison had been dipping into the three-hour mark of his self-pleasure. Had it not been for a strange, bearded intruder, Harrison very well might have still been edging himself.

There _was_ an intruder though and while he was definitely a disruption to Harrison’s private activity, the boy didn’t see it as such a bad thing. In fact, he seemed rather pleased. Upon taking one look at Father Christmas, he smiled and said, “Oh, this is too good.”

Santa, who, remarkably, still wasn’t worn down after his romps with Tom and Harry, cocked an eyebrow at Harrison, though he said nothing.

“Let me guess?” Harrison continued, unperturbed. “You’re here to deliver me a present. Is that it?”

Again, Santa remained silent.

“No? Yes?” After tossing his phone aside and throwing back his blanket, Harrison crawled towards the end of his bed. He arched his back and pawed at the clasp on one of Santa’s suspenders. “Come on, big guy. Tell me what you brought me. I bet it’s big.”

What happened next, Harrison never saw coming. In the midst of his teasing, Santa’s hand shot out and curled around the boy’s neck, tightening so that air was more than a luxury. He stared into Harrison’s eyes, threateningly, and snarled, “You’ve been naughty, Harrison Osterfield.”

“Oh…yeah?” The words came out in gasps, each one cut sharply.

Santa tossed Harrison onto the mattress. Instinctively—or was it by some other power?—Harrison’s arms shot up, against the headboard. When the boy attempted to pull them down, he found himself bound, two lengths of green garland around either of his wrists.

He looked at Santa Claus, a smirk splayed across his lips. “Festive.”

From where the man produced it, Harrison didn’t know, but Santa held a thin riding crop, the paddle adorned to look like a gingerbread man. At the boy’s curt remark, the crop was brought down, hard against his stomach. Harrison yelped at the sudden bite.

Santa smiled. “Are you going to listen now?”

It would take more than a single whap to deter the spirited boy though. Instead of answering Santa’s question outright, Harrison opted to bite his own lip and purr at his newfound captor. He must have thought his words were seductive. Santa found them insubordinate.

“How naughty have I been, Mister C?”

_WHAP!_

“Mm, is that all? Doesn’t feel that naughty to me.”

_WHAP! WHAP!_

With each smack of the riding crop, Harrison’s body flinched upward, his back arching off of the mattress, his toes curling against the colored string lights he found binding him to the bedposts.

“Christ, Santa,” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you were all about giving, not taking.”

“Oh, I give,” the bearded man replied flatly. “But only to those on my Good list.”

“And I take it I’m not on that list?”

“You’re not even close.”

Santa plodded around the bed, stopping to the boy’s right. The two held each other’s gaze momentarily before Santa brought the riding crop down once more, this time against Harrison’s nipple that, instantaneously, hardened.

Harrison gasped as his skin pinked. “Jesus, big guy. You gotta give a guy a warning before you—”

_WHAP!_

Santa brought the crop down again, against the opposite nipple, far harder than any time before.

“Fucking hell,” Harrison cried, throwing his head back. Santa relished in the look upon the poor boy’s face, a contortion of agony and yearning. The smacks of leather against skin hurt the boy, of course. More than that though, it brought a wave of pleasure that washed over the deeds responsible for Harrison having been on the Naughty list.

“Will you listen now?” Santa challenged. He held the riding crop in either of his hands, toying with the gingerbread design, not glancing at the crumbling boy before him.

Harrison, who had been panting through Santa’s silent observation, bit his bottom lip and spoke through a growl. “Yes.”

_WHAP!_

“Yes, _what?_ ” Santa pointed the paddle of the crop at Harrison, directly in his line of sight.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” Harrison hissed.

“Good boy. That’s the first obedient thing you’ve done tonight. I think it deserves a treat.”

“Like a dog?” Harrison argued.

Santa brought the riding crop down but stopped centimeters from the boy’s bellybutton. He chuckled at the swift rise and fall of Harrison’s stomach. “Well, if the stocking fits.” He moved closer to the boy, leaned down over his sweaty face. “Open your mouth, boy.”

As he was meant to, Harrison opened his mouth obediently. What followed was a string of saliva that dripped from Santa’s mouth into the boy’s. Though he hadn’t been told to do so, Harrison swallowed the spit, contemplating how much of peppermint it tasted.

Having pulled back from him, Santa asked, “What do you say, boy?”

It was an instinct now, a stumble into old habits. It had been years since Harrison had been reminded of who he was. A pet, a toy. When his master said speak, the boy knew to say, “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s a good boy,” Santa mused. “A very good boy. Now, how about we have some more fun, hm?”

Harrison didn’t exactly know what kind of fun Santa had in mind, though he had his suspicions. Enough, anyway, that when Santa produced a pair of dirty underwear from the hamper by the closet, he wasn’t all that surprised. Neither was he when the lumbering giant laid the green and red striped garment over the boy’s face.

“Do you smell that?” Santa asked, stepping back from Harrison who, upon being blanketed, immediately began inhaling.

“Yes, sir,” Harrison mumbled through the fabric.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you like it? Hm? Why do you like the smell of pissy, nasty underwear?”

“Because they’re mine, sir.”

“Because they’re yours.” Santa let the words hang in the air, allowed them to set in the boy’s mind. After a moment, he spoke, squeamish and apparently sorrowful.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Santa peeled back the underwear to reveal puppy-like eyes. “Why are you sorry, boy?”

“Because I lied.”

“Because you lied. How so?”

“They aren’t my underwear,” Harrison admitted.

“And who’s are they?”

There was silence for a moment as Harrison contemplated lying again. One look at Santa’s face though, and he knew he had to tell the truth. With a deep breath, a sharp inhale of musk, he said, “Tom’s.”

Santa didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he seemed to rather be enjoying himself at the guilt bleeding from his new toy. He was laughing, a deep and hollow sound that reverberated through the room. It continued for a while, bouncing through Harrison’s head until he inevitably joined in. When that happened, Santa stopped and snapped his fingers.

As if by magic—it probably was, he figured—Harrison’s legs were unbound from the bedposts and thrown over his head, remaining glued between his arms, against the headboard. Positioned like this, the boy’s bottom was on full display, and Santa intended to make use of it.

Again, as if from nowhere, in the same way he’d retrieved the riding crop, Santa produced a whip. It had a thin, red handle and the strips jutting out from it were red and green. There were nine of them in all and, as Harrison mutely noted, they looked peculiarly like tinsel. They did not, however, feel like the holiday decoration, ticklish and delicate. When Santa brought the whip down on the boy’s bare bottom, Harrison cried out deafeningly.

“That’s what you get for lying,” Santa explained to him, a smile hidden in his beard.

Harrison was panting. “Is…that…all?”

“Oh, no.” Santa chuckled. “There are twelve days of Christmas, no? We’ve only done one.”

“ _What?_ ” Harrison maneuvered his head to stare at Father Christmas. “What does that mean?”

Instead of answering this, Santa asked a question of his own. “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…what?”

Harrison didn’t have to think about this. He’d been taught the song at a young age and had been singing it every holiday season since. “A partridge in a pear tree.”

“Good. On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”

“Two turtle doves.”

_SWAT! SWAT!_

“Fuck.” Harrison bit his lip to hold back a cry. Once the sting in his cheeks subsided, he glared at his dominator. “I thought it was one whip for each day?”

“You thought wrong,” Santa deadpanned, toying with the ends of the cattail whip. “Now, on the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”

They continued on like this until the entire song had been spelled out. Twelve days of Christmas and seventy-eight whippings later, Harrison felt his bottom was numb and that his heart was seconds from imploding. Sweat beaded down the boy's forehead, dripping into the underwear that still masked the majority of his face. After such a vicious punishment, Harrison began wondering if Santa were through with him. He was wrong to wander into such thoughts.

“How are you feeling, pet?” The jolly giant queried, languidly tossing the whip to the floor. It didn’t make a sound.

“Okay,” Harrison lied.

“Yeah?” Santa snapped his fingers and Harrison’s legs fell flat, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “You want to tell me why you had Tom’s underwear?”

Harrison knew he couldn’t lie. “Sometimes, I like to sniff them as I wank.”

“Is that all?”

“No. On occasion, I’ll come in the underwear and wear them around the next day.”

Santa guided Harrison’s body farther across the bed and sat beside him, facing the boy. “That’s a good boy for being honest. I think you deserve another treat.”

“Yeah?” Harrison’s front twitched at the idea of the man’s hands on him.

“Oh, yes, boy.” As he said the words, Santa brought his hand against the already-slick length between the boy’s legs. He wrapped his fingers loosely around it and began a series of languorous pumps. Ever so slowly, Harrison began to fall into the touch, relaxing against the mattress and letting his eyes flutter shut. Small, breathy moans escaped through his lips. His toes curled, finally free from bondage. It didn’t take long at all for the feelings to become too sensational and for the boy to buck his hips.

“I’m getting close,” he gasped, his voice muffled through the fabric of his best friend’s underwear.

“You are?” Santa pressed, quickening his wrist movement. When Harrison nodded feverishly, the bearded man dropped the boy’s length. It remained stiff in the air, the head gleaming.

Harrison eyed his dominator sourly. “What the hell? I was about to come.”

“Exactly.” Santa stood. “Your wish tonight was to be used, was it not?”

“Yeah…”

“And I think I’ve done a fairly well job of it, wouldn’t you think.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, _what?_ ”

“Yes, sir,” Harrison amended.

Santa smiled. “You can come, Harrison, but not right now.”

“ _When?_ ”

“In the morning.”

“How will I know it’s okay?”

“You’ll know,” Santa promised. And with those lingering two words, Father Christmas parted through a door that hadn't opened. As Harrison lay, still restrained in garland, he pondered the old man’s words. When sleep finally overcame the boy, he drifted into dreams of Tom and Harry. He, himself, had his wish come true. Had they?


	5. Christmas Morning

Tom, Harry, and Harrison all awoke on Christmas morning at the exact same time, down to the strike of the grandfather clock. Whether this was by coincidence was entirely up for debate, one none of the boys seemed very much interested in partaking in. What they _did_ seem interested in was the mound of presents stacked tidily beneath the brightly lit fir tree in the living room.

One after the other, the boys raced from their bedrooms and crowded around the tree. None were too patient as they began to tear into the wrapped boxes addressed to them, “oohing” and “ahhing” at the gifts they’d received. In just ten minutes, the living room was shrouded in green and red paper and the Holland boys were looking over their favorite items.

For Harry, it was a new lens Tom had given him. The aperture and F-Stop were phenomenal and just the specifics the young photographer had been after.

For Harrison, it was a designer jacket that had sold out months before. He’d pined after the thing hopelessly, yet Harry had come through.

And for Tom, it was a simple framed photo of the three of them. Harrison had tied it neatly with a bow and, on the back of it, written in black ink, was a note. **_To the guys who make my life better…Hazza._** Never a super sentimental one Harrison was. Still, the message was enough to bring tears to Tom’s eyes.

Hurriedly, upon seeing his brother and best friend glance at him, Tom wiped at his cheeks and smiled. “Thank you both. For everything, I mean.” He looked at the pile of presents beside him.

“Don’t mention it,” Harrison said. He crawled forward then and laced his arms around Tom’s neck. They shared pecks on the cheek before hugging. During, Tom expected his brother to join. Instead, the youngest of the three was busy beneath the tree. He appeared to be reaching for something.

Tom spoke over his best friend’s shoulder. “What is it, Hare?”

“Another gift,” the boy explained, pulling back a rectangular box. It was wrapped in an unfamiliar paper patterned with workshop elves. A red bow was taped to the corner and, beneath it, a card was hanging on a strip of twine.

Harrison pointed at the card and urged, “Read it.”

Harry did, peeling open the slip and reading, “‘To Tom, Harrison, and Harry. My best little sluts.’” Harry paused and licked his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed precariously. “‘Love…Santa…’”

The boys sat in stunned silence for a moment, none daring to open the mysterious box. Silently, each reminisced on the night before, recalling how Father Christmas had crept into each of their rooms and made their Christmas wishes come true.

After a while, Harrison was the one to break the quiet. He cleared his throat and nodded at the unopened gift. “Should we see what’s inside?”

“No,” Tom snapped quickly. “It’s hard telling who it came from.”

“Santa,” Harry clarified, holding the card up so his brother could read the cursive scrawl.

Tom shrugged and pulled away from Harrison’s embrace. “And we’re supposed to believe it’s him? Someone who doesn’t exist?”

“Something happened to me last night, Tom.” Harrison stared daggers at his best friend. His hands were clenched fists on his thighs. “I know the same happened to you. And Harry.”

“I—” But Tom broke off. He knew he couldn’t deny the truth.

“He’s right, Tom,” Harry jumped in. “You know he is.”

He rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine, open it.”

Carefully, Harry peeled away the wrapping paper on the package to unveil a cardboard lid. Upon removing it, the living room filled with gasps. Wrapped in a tight green bow was a toy unlike any of the boys had seen before.

“Is it…candy?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I don’t think so,” said Harrison who was the bravest of them to reach for the toy. He gripped it tightly between his fingers and felt it give way under pressure, like silicone always did.

“It’s, uh, not candy…”

“Of course, not,” Tom sighed, clearly irritated. He reached for the toy and let it idle on his palms. He studied it momentarily, taking in the red and white stripes lining it, the ones that made it look like a candy cane.

“Well, what do we do with it?” Harry asked, cutting into Tom’s thoughts.

His older brother softened. “Isn’t it obvious? We use it.”

“Like, on each other?” Harrison pressed.

Tom nodded. “Who else?”

Though Harry still seemed dazed by the newfound gift, Harrison needed no more convincing to leap forward and press his lips against Tom’s. Together, the boys collapsed to the ground and pawed at each other in a fit of giggles. In the midst of their very sudden and very flirtatious embrace, the candy caned striped toy rolled away and stopped next to Harry who promptly picked it up.

He stared at it and thought back to the night. Moments later, he announced, “Okay, we’ll use it.”

Harrison and Tom stopped immediately and stared at the boy, expectant.

“But…I want it first…”

Harrison looked from Harry to Tom and back again. “Like, you want it used on you first?”

Harry nodded silently and rolled the toy over his fingertips. Tom inched forward and took hold of his brother’s occupied hand, sandwiching the thing between them. Their eyes met and Tom grinned, toothy and wide.

“Oh, that can be arranged,” he whispered, then pressed into a kiss.

A gasp escaped Harry’s lips before he quickly realized what was happening and leaned into Tom. His hands, abandoning the toy, wound up his brother’s back, dipped beneath his shirt so that all he felt was skin too hot to touch. He nearly expected to pull back and find blisters on his fingertips. The thought further aroused him, to the point that his own clothes began to feel constrictive.

Harry pulled back from Tom and, with the speed of someone desperate for release, tore off his clothes. When he was finished, he idled back on his bare bottom and looked at his brother whose eyes burned. Tom looked down at his brother like a feral beast cornering its prey. Harry, ever the submissive boy, was more than happy to be feasted upon.

He smirked at his brother – a smirk that explained just how he felt – before crawling forward and burying his face in a fleece-lined crotch. He inhaled deeply and felt that familiar euphoria numb his brain. In seconds, he was intoxicated by his brother’s musk. And as with any drug, he craved more.

Before Tom could protest, Harry was pulling down the waistband of the pajamas and setting free the eight-inch beast. It sprung up immediately and smacked against Harry’s lips. He didn’t seem to mind though. He simply parted his mouth and accepted the girthy rod with ease. The technique was apparently surprising to Tom who responded with a noise that sounded like a mix of a gasp and moan.

Harrison chuckled then, reminding the other boys that they were not a party of two. “I take it this isn’t your first cock?”

The question was obviously directed at Harry who was happy to answer. He came off his brother with a pop and pumped lazily as he retorted, “I think out of everyone, you should be the one to know the answer to that.”

“What?” Tom, still a crumbling mess but now leaning back on his palms, eyed Harrison. “He’s blown you before?”

Harrison smirked and bit his lip. He cast his gaze downward. “No comment…”

“No comment, my ass.” Tom reached a hand, urging his best friend forward. Harrison followed the signal and closed the gap between himself and Tom. They kissed then, neither very gentle.

Meanwhile, Harry had dived back down on Tom’s meat, burying it into his throat. He gargled on the head and relished the taste of precome that leaked onto his tongue. He lapped at it, swirled the sweetness for a moment, and slicked it over the veiny shaft. Each deliberate movement sparked energy in Tom’s veins. Soon, the oldest of the Holland boys was having to keep hold of Harrison else risk collapsing back from the pleasure coursing through him.

After a while of this, Harry came off his brother. His lips were wet and saliva mixed with precome dripped down his chin. He didn’t bother licking it and, instead, rose to the other boys’ height. He stared at them until they pulled apart.

Harrison spoke first. “What? You want a go on me?”

Harry nodded. “That and…” He eyed the man-shaped toy on the floor.

“I like you’re thinking,” Tom said before snatching the toy up. He examined it for just a moment before gesturing, with a twirling finger, for his brother to turn around.

Harry did as he was told – not a surprise to anyone in the room – and arched his bottom up for easy access. For a moment, all he could feel was a cool breeze on his skin before something wet suddenly pounced on his tight opening. When he realized it was his brother’s tongue, it was too late to say anything. By then, Harrison stripped out of his clothes and promptly plugged Harry’s mouth with a real version of the candy cane toy.

“That’s it,” he breathed as Harry melted into the familiar movements. “You suck that cock, bitch.”

Tom laughed suddenly, short, and scoff-like. “He’s your bitch is he?”

“Might be.” Harrison slit his eyes. “You wanna be one, too?”

“Nah,” Tom said. “We can just share him.”

Harry spoke then, his words garbled by his full mouth. “I like the sound of that!”

“Oh, you like the sound of it?” Harrison pressed. “I wonder if he likes the feel of it. Tom?”

“Already on it…”

Tom brought the tip of the toy to his brother’s puckered opening and, without hesitation, inched it in. Harry gasped at the initial break of skin but eased into the pressure rather quickly. As he was filled more and more, he continued to bob on Harrison’s length. It wasn’t long before he was plugged on either end, the hilt of the new toy pressing on his cheeks and Harrison’s pubes pressing into his nose.

For a while, the boys fell into a rhythm like this. Tom thrusted the toy while Harrison thrusted his hips. In the middle, Harry lay helpless, relishing in the control. To any normal guy, it would be enough, but not to Harry who was used to far more brutality.

Suddenly, he rose to his knees and took hold of the toy. Harrison and Tom were both too surprised to say anything as Harry removed the toy and stood.

“I want you both,” he announced surely.

Harrison cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean? We’re using you right now.”

“I want you both inside me,” Harry clarified.

“Like, together?” Tom looked excited at the idea. When his brother nodded affirmatively, the young actor stood and stripped out of the rest of his clothes.

He laid down then and prompted Harrison to do the same. In seconds, either of the boys were laced together, leg over leg, so that their lengths were pressing together. Harry didn’t hesitate before climbing atop them and sliding down.

The living room became a chamber of voices when he did. Harrison cried out while Tom moaned throatily. Harry, taking the most of it, yelled until his lungs were empty. By then, he could feel pubes scratching his cheeks. He fell into motion then, riding the boys as if he’d done it a hundred times before. In the midst of their pleasure, he also tucked the toy between his lips and slurped on it ragingly.

It went on like this for not as long as one might think. Apparently, the swelling inside Harry was too much for the boys who, after only twenty minutes, had to pull themselves free, else risk prematurely climaxing. When either was on their feet and Harry was still on the ground, an idea popped into Harrison’s mind.

“You know,” he began. “I really need to come but I don’t want to waste it.”

Tom caught on almost immediately. “I know exactly what you mean, Haz.”

“Harry, lean back.” Harrison pushed the boy for emphasis. “Open that pretty little mouth for us, eh?”

Without qualm, Harry did as he was told. He waited patiently then as his brother and best friend ambled forward and began pumping themselves furiously. He watched, aroused, and intrigued, as they began to kiss. The sight made his own front twitch. He took hold of it and matched the boys’ paces.

Things progressed like this for only a couple of minutes before either of the standing boys moaned and bucked their hips. It was then that ropes upon ropes of come darted forward and splattered onto Harry’s face, painting it white. When they finally finished, Tom and Harrison collapsed to their knees and lapped at Harry. Neither even noticed the boy had released his own come on the floor. It wasn’t as if they would have cared though. They were too focused on the mess gluing one of Harry’s eyes shut.

It didn’t take long for this mess to be cleaned away. Once it had, all three boys collapsed on the ground, just beside the Christmas tree. Its lights twinkled brightly and reflected in all of their eyes as they basked in the silence and realization of what they’d just done. None regretted the choice. It was the exact opposite. They felt closer to one another, felt more love. And though no one said it, the boys knew that this would always be the best Christmas.


End file.
